


A Meditation of Fabric and Revenge

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Breathplay, Dream Sex, Dreams, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic





	A Meditation of Fabric and Revenge

It happens with stunning clarity.

There's no doubt in his mind as he fucks Nero, thrusting into the dry tight heat of the Romulan leader, that this is the path to revenge. There are no questions as his hands close around Nero's throat, squeezing, willing the life out of him. No calculations. No logic. 

Nero's breath is rough and shallow. His eyes are hard and dark, unwilling to plead for mercy. Sweat beads in the inked lines of his face. There is a wrinkle at the corner of his eye, a detail too human, too specific. That's always when Spock wakes up, gasping for air as if he were the one being strangled, startled out of his unconscious powerplay by the slender dark curves of Uhura's shoulder and hip, the stark white of the sheet over her body. The lights are at twenty percent, because she doesn't like to sleep in total darkness. At these times, he's thankful for it. He needs this visceral reminder of the boundary between sleeping and waking.

"Murderer," Nero whispers in his dreams. "Vulcan slut. Is this how you repay me?"

Spock can only grip harder. Even in the dream, he has no real control.

"Pathetic."

He can feel the windpipe crush, the slip of his hand on sweat-slick skin, the re-tightening, regaining purchase. He can see the life go out of hard, dark eyes before he notices the wrinkle. Before he feels the warmth of Uhura's skin and the beat of her pulse at his side.

_Pathetic._

His hand moves too fast, too desperate. If he focuses on the physical, perhaps he will not think about it, perhaps he will not need to bring up those pictures in his mind's eye -- the growing dullness of the eyes, the sneering mouth, the fine, too-human wrinkle. He tries to meditate, to focus on the breath, but his breathing is frantic, just like his hand, the little jerking motions pulling in turn at the sheet and there's a momentary panic when he pictures Uhura waking, finding him like this. And then he comes.

There's a stillness as he lies there, focusing in tightly on the sleep-rhythm of Uhura's breath, matching his own to it, feeling sweat and come cool on his belly. The sheet itself is a comfort, swaddling him in fabric. Fabric is a tangible thing. Fabric is not a dream, not a feeling of shame that he presses quickly down into that place of repression in the back of his throat where all emotions eventually must lie, not the confusion that hovers here in the gap between shame and comfort. He presses the edge of the sheet to his cheek, feels the stitching against his jaw, and tries to slow his breath. Eventually, he must go back to sleep. The question is, does he await that moment with dread? Or anticipation?

Uhura exhales.

Spock closes his eyes.


End file.
